Some Do Not
by frozen-delight
Summary: James Moriarty and Irene Adler weren't the first people to enjoy giving Sherlock a good puzzle and watching him dance. Neither have they been the last. There's always been Mycroft, after all. But the puzzle that Mycroft's presented Sherlock with from the earliest days of their childhood might just be too difficult for him to crack... [full summary and warnings inside the story]


**Title:** Some Do Not  
**Rating:** Teen and Up Audiences  
**Fandom:** Sherlock (BBC)  
**Pairing:** Sherlock/Mycroft  
**Category:** Character Study, Brotherly Relationship  
**Warnings:** Thoughts, feelings and actions of an incestuous nature, but still not nearly as incesty as the pairing might suggest; dark undertones  
**Word count:** ~ 11,000  
**Status:** Complete  
**Beta:** Many, many thanks to the lovely **dioscureantwins** who had the good grace and patience to go over this monster of a fic twice, after her feedback induced me to make some fundamental revisions. All remaining mistakes are mine of course.  
Additional thanks to **canonisrelative** who gave me some very good advice on beginnings and pacing.  
**Disclaimer:** Sherlock is the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary:** James Moriarty and Irene Adler weren't the first people to enjoy giving Sherlock a good puzzle and watching him dance. Neither have they been the last. There's always been Mycroft, after all. But the puzzle that Mycroft's presented Sherlock with from the earliest days of their childhood might just be too difficult for him to crack. Maybe, though, the only thing that ultimately matters is that Sherlock figures out himself.

**A/N:** Not Season 3 compliant.

* * *

_And there Mycroft's put him in a quandary, _Sherlock thought, running a hand over the long, sweeping branch beneath him. His brother was entertaining the Turkish ambassador in his drawing room, and Sherlock was observing them from the oak tree outside the that Sherlock made a habit of spying on his brother's political chess matches from trees in his back garden. Nor that he generally spent much time up in trees, not for the last twenty odd years at least. But how else was he supposed to divert himself, considering that he'd walked the whole distance from Baker Street and still arrived too early? It was only half past nine.

Mycroft had told him that his guest wouldn't leave before ten. This meant that Sherlock would have to wait for another thirty minutes, after already waiting for half a day. And all of his life. Waiting for – Wasn't it uncanny how close to the mark John's throwaway comment had been? _For Christ's sake, sit down, Sherlock! The way you behave one could think you're the one going on a date tonight! _Sherlock wasn't dating, obviously, that would have been preposterous. The very idea rattled him. And yet Sherlock certainly hadn't come here impatiently awaiting a game of whist.

Sherlock had never been good at waiting. As far as he was concerned, the saying _Anticipation is the greatest pleasure _was one of the most pointless lies humanity kept telling itself. He hated waiting and more often than not lost all interest in the course of it. He hadn't told John without reason that he considered waiting a metaphysical piece of impudence earlier on when his flatmate started to complain about Sherlock's continuous pacing and fidgeting. _Relax or I'll reblog that,_ had been John's sole reply. Well, John was … _John_. Sherlock smiled fondly in recollection, then frowned down at the proceedings in the drawing room. He could only hope that his brother would hold his guest to the stated time.

When he arrived, Sherlock had first let his gaze wander inquisitively over the broad, imposing front of Mycroft's latest townhouse, but the building held no particular interest for him. All of Mycroft's domiciles were tediously similar – an imperial front that mirrored the public façade of their resident, situated in a dull, respectable neighbourhood. Then he'd busied himself with disabling the alarm at the entrance gate since Mycroft hadn't given him a key, but that didn't prove much of a challenge and before he knew it, Sherlock had slipped inside the dark, quiet premises.

There the two voluminous stone pots on either side of the porch had caught his eye. Common geraniums. Orbit Cardinal, to be exact. Sherlock huffed a soundless laugh that Mycroft should still be such a conservative. _Pert, vulgar little flowers_, Mummy had always called them. She'd preferred the strong, natural grace of Chinese wisteria, lilac or hawthorn, of course she had. And yet she'd planted them again each year. Sherlock had never quite worked out if she did it to torture Daddy or to torture herself. As for Mycroft, though, perhaps he was only being prudent. The choice of common geraniums on the porch certainly gave nothing away. It was a plain, subtly misleading statement, similar to the claim _I occupy a minor position in the British government._

If Sherlock had tried to puzzle out whether the geraniums signified childhood nostalgia, political cunning or something else entirely, the thirty minutes before the ambassador left would undoubtedly have flown by in the bat of an eye. But Sherlock was loath to embark on that enterprise. Whereas with anyone else he could easily have determined the true motive behind the arrangement, he had to admit to himself that with Mycroft he never knew anything for sure. To some extent that was thrilling, very much so even, but mostly it frustrated him, for it felt like a game that he never had any chance of winning.

So instead of wasting any further thoughts on his brother's secret or not so secret life expressed in the language of flowers, Sherlock decided to pass the remaining time by watching the meeting unfold in the drawing room, which was how he'd ended up on the sturdy branch of this old English oak tree.

~S~

'…"Oh, I am far too happy!" he said to the little mermaid. "My highest wish, that which I never dared to hope for, has been fulfilled. You will rejoice at my happiness, for you love me more than all of them." And the little mermaid kissed his hand, and felt already as if her heart were breaking…'

Leaning out of the window as far as his short legs would allow him, Sherlock breathed in the sweet, full scents of spring, and let his eyes roam over the assembled guests down on the lawn and then on to the lake at the far end of the garden, where the colourful lanterns hanging in the surrounding willows were reflected on the water's darkly glistening surface, like the ornaments of the merpeople living somewhere in its depths.

Not that merpeople actually existed. Mycroft had made a point of informing Sherlock that they weren't real before he started reading. In Sherlock's mind this ranked with his brother's other annoying habits like telling Sherlock not to spend all day up in his treehouse or to make his bed in the mornings or to brush his hair or to eat his peas. But he'd nodded like a good little boy lest Mycroft forego his bedtime story altogether.

The clinking of glasses and affected laughter down from the lawn intermingled with Mycroft's smooth, lazy voice, '…And now again all were awake and rejoicing in the ship; she saw the prince, with his pretty bride; they had missed her; they looked sorrowfully down on the foamy waters, as if they knew she had plunged into the sea; unseen she kissed the bridegroom's forehead, smiled upon him, and then, with the rest of the children of air, soared high above the rosy cloud which was sailing so peacefully over the ship…' He paused for effect, then added drily, closing the book that was lying in his lap, 'Bedtime, Sherlock.'

Sherlock didn't bother to come away from the open window. 'I don't like the ending,' he complained, his eyes still fixed on the merry proceedings outside. 'Why didn't the prince marry the little mermaid when she loved him so much?'

Fortunately, Mycroft always had an answer for everything. 'Well, he didn't know just how much she loved him, that she'd even saved his life, and she couldn't tell him.'

'Why didn't he piece it together? He must be an idiot,' Sherlock decided. Mycroft laughed.

Below, Mummy and Daddy were making conversation, completing each other's sentences with devastating precision. At this age, Sherlock was still too young to understand the misery of two childhood friends who'd gotten married in a brief spell of confusion. And yet again sometime later Sherlock realised that there'd probably never been any confusion and maybe there wasn't even misery; just two bored, self-absorbed individuals who loved to play games and torture each other and who'd found the perfect spectator for their inner drama.

But back then Sherlock already understood that never mind how much Mummy might laugh and talk of _my flimsy little garden party_, the event had been plotted with greater strategic care than any nineteenth century general had ever invested into his battle plan, right down to every branch of hawthorn that had been placed on the tables in seeming haphazardness.

'It's still unfair, though,' Sherlock grumbled after a beat.

'Be reasonable, Sherlock,' Mycroft said calmly as he stepped beside Sherlock, 'it simply couldn't be.' He watched their parents with a small frown between his brows. 'They couldn't be together. The prince only felt like a brother to the little mermaid.'

Thoughtfully, Sherlock stuck out his tongue and sucked on it as he mulled over his brother's words. Unlike Mummy or Daddy, Mycroft tended to take all of Sherlock's questions seriously and never failed to provide an explanation for any phenomenon that interested, fascinated or bothered Sherlock, be it sunsets or putrefaction. Tonight, however, he was falling short of his own grand standards by a mile. His answer was oddly cryptic and illogical. On second thought, it was also more than a little upsetting.

Looking up at his brother, Sherlock asked, 'We're always going to be together, though, aren't we?'

Mycroft chuckled and ruffled a hand through Sherlock's curls. 'No, Sherlock. It won't be like that. Just wait till you're a little older. You'll go to school and make new friends and when you're grown up you might get married and then you'll spend most of your time with your spouse…'

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. 'Mummy and Daddy don't spend a lot of time together.'

'They're not exactly the best example of a married couple, though,' Mycroft said, glancing at their parents' clockwork performance on the lawn. 'Ideally, two people marry because they share a special brand of love.'

Sherlock thought it strange that love was supposed to come along in different brands, like shampoo or soap. For all he could see, it varied mostly in intensity, with Mycroft loving him very, very much and Mummy and Daddy not quite so much, even though they would pet him absentmindedly and call him their little angel in instances Mycroft would choose to scold him.

Adulthood and the discovery of the chemical processes of particular hormone releases alongside the curious Greek distinction between Agape, Eros, Philia and Storge did nothing to clear up Sherlock's original doubts on the matter. As much as he appreciated order and classifications, he found all customary categorisations of love inherently flawed and therefore superfluous. It was difficult to imagine they would ever have been any more satisfying to Mycroft's clean, cold mind than they'd been to Sherlock's six-year-old self. Unless of course Mycroft's words hadn't so much been dictated by sense as by the last traces of hopes and ideals he'd still cherished back then, before succumbing to plain, misanthropic logic for good.

'But I love you more than anyone, Mycroft. So why can't we just be together?' Sherlock asked earnestly, tugging at Mycroft's sleeve.

'That's not what I meant. You'll understand when you're older and you love someone else the best.'

Unblinkingly, Sherlock stared up at his brother. 'But what if I don't?'

'Just wait and see, clever clogs,' Mycroft said and closed the window. 'Now. Bed.'

~S~

Up here in the oak tree, just below the level of the darkened windows on the second storey, Sherlock had an excellent view down into the lit drawing room without any danger of being spotted himself. Likewise, he could perfectly survey the well-kept back garden, and ever so often his eyes flitted away from the window behind which his brother and the ambassador were engaging in tactical skirmishes and further down to the small hawthorn tree, which stood in full flower.

Discovering it had been a pleasant surprise. The love of hawthorn had always been one of the few traits shared by all the family and, indeed, how could it not have been, when the inner life of each and every one of them was mainly comprised of an eternal walk from Combray to Tansonville, shrouded in a mist of symbols and metaphors? Though of course Sherlock had lately been trying to leave behind 'all that'.

Still, tenderness suffused him at the sight of the tree. Size and growth indicated it had been planted around two years ago. Two years. Now here, unlike the accursed geraniums on the porch, was something Sherlock thought he could read without any doubt, even if it was the work of his ever-scheming brother. For this simply couldn't be a coincidence. Therefore, before he began climbing the gnarly old oak tree, Sherlock had broken off one of the twigs and inhaled deeply. Trimethylamine. The sweetest fragrance imaginable to his molten heart. Then he'd carefully wrapped a handkerchief around the thorny stem and attached the dainty white blossoms to his top button hole. There they now sat, observing the scene below together with Sherlock and quivering faintly in unison with every move he made.

Mycroft was seated with his back to the window. Sherlock could only make out his receding hairline above the backrest of his chair and the half-filled glass of Scotch which he was leisurely twirling in one long-fingered, pampered hand. The Turkish ambassador sat diagonally opposite, his features compressed into controlled but nonetheless unmistakable discontent. His glass was already empty. It rather seemed as though Mycroft had him where he wanted him. And that the ambassador knew it too.

~S~

'Oh, do wear the red one if you're going into battle!' Sherlock insisted as they stood in his brother's dressing room, already picturing the defeated look on the prime minister's face as Mycroft took his budget plans to pieces position by position, and busied himself with arranging the tie in question around Mycroft's neck.

Mycroft generally appreciated Sherlock's excellent taste and had also conceded after just two months of co-habitation that Sherlock was a lot defter when it came to tying cravats than he was himself. Naturally, this observation had been followed up by a lament that Sherlock himself refused to wear ties. As was his custom, Sherlock hadn't budged, claiming he hated the constrictive feeling around his throat and didn't want to rival Mycroft in looking like a stuffed monkey.

After all, the impulse to love Mycroft was only slightly older than the annoyance at him for having the advantage of seven years in age, height and sagacity; an advantage which never seemed to shrink no matter how many years passed by, much to Sherlock's chagrin. It was only understandable that this vast injustice fuelled in Sherlock the obstinate need to do things differently. And since Mycroft essentially sought to mould Sherlock into his own image, Sherlock mustered up all his energy to ruin his brother's best efforts.

In one or two particularly lucid moments shared with John at 221B, Sherlock wondered whether his instinct to oppose all of Mycroft's plans and schemes for his future had not been quite rational at heart. A part of Sherlock must have realised, even at an early age, that he would never be nearly as good at being Mycroft as Mycroft was himself, and had tried to spare himself the ensuing frustration.

Maybe Mycroft had realised this too. After all, he allowed Sherlock to drop out of university after the fourth Trinity term of four fruitless years filled with more scandals than studies with relatively little fuss. Plus he was the one who suggested that Sherlock spend some time with him in London to decide what he actually wanted to do with his life. And once there, he never pressured Sherlock to make up his mind.

Soon, Sherlock had been staying for a whole month, then for two, three, four, five. And still Mycroft didn't urge him to find an occupation for himself. Never mind a place of his own. Sherlock rather suspected that Mycroft liked having him around. Only in moments where he felt unaccountably wary did Sherlock ascribe somewhat less generous motivations to his brother: It could well be that he was nothing more than a screw in Mycroft's deft hands, which Mycroft submitted to a constant, if subtle tugging, prodding, and turning for his own private entertainment whenever the affairs of state failed to captivate his attention. But Sherlock was too used to these mind games to be unsettled by them for long. What mattered to him were the hard facts: They were good at sharing a house. They were good at sharing their lives. Each day was an intricate dance of two like minds and two opposite temperaments; yet more often than not, Sherlock relished the clashing, grating way they wove themselves into one another, rather than finding it infuriating or bothersome.

It was certainly never boring.

It might have become a nuisance if they'd always been living in each other's pockets, but Mycroft did spend most of his waking hours at the office and Sherlock wandered about the city for hours on end, slowly acquainting himself with each and every small, dingy passageway. Also, on a halfway regular basis, Mycroft was out for the evening, meeting one of his 'lady friends'. (Whenever he bothered to think about them at all, Sherlock actively added the inverted commas, a trait he'd probably inherited from Mummy, the soft-spoken champion of the audible quotation marks.) Try as he might to be discreet, the signs of these insipid encounters were always scattered all over Mycroft when he returned home. From what Sherlock had gathered, Mycroft was seeing three different women, all of them casual flings. He briefly wondered if they were aware of said status. Or of their rivals. And how Mycroft succeeded in telling and keeping them apart. Beyond that, however, Sherlock wasted no unnecessary time and brain space on the matter. They were utterly unimportant, after all.

For it was Sherlock with whom Mycroft chose to analyse his opponents, deducing every single of their weaknesses and putting together the elaborate steps necessary to lure them into passing a certain new law or to immobilise them, once and for all. Sherlock knew that if he'd followed the career path Mycroft had intended for him, Mycroft would never have been able to discuss his job with him as freely. Perhaps that was the reason Mycroft hadn't yet forced him to choose an occupation for good.

It was also Sherlock who helped Mycroft prepare for elite dinners and parties by practising conversation or dancing, although according to Mycroft Sherlock was hopeless at the first: _With that foul, scathing tongue of yours, you wouldn't even make it through the appetizer before someone kicked you out of the house, brother mine. _Well, Sherlock had never cared much for small talk. At the dancing, though, he excelled. Sometimes when Sherlock allowed Mycroft to lead him across the drawing room in wide, gliding steps, he noticed out of the corner of his eye (because he never once forgot his head posture) how Mycroft's Adam's apple bobbed up and down, accompanied by an appreciative glimmer in his eyes. Sherlock wasn't quite sure why that was. The sight made him feel unusually self-conscious. He also didn't really know why that was, though he refused to be alarmed by this particular piece of ignorance. It was small wonder that he'd come out of the phantomesque spectacle of his childhood alternatingly depraved and innocent in all the wrong places.

And, in the end, it was Sherlock, and not some random high-maintenance 'lady friend', who selected and tied his brother's cravats for him, choosing the perfect knot for each meeting. That there might be something peculiar and inherently dangerous in this behaviour hadn't occurred to him. Not until now, when the rich dark tone of red beautifully complimented Mycroft's pearl-grey shirt and pale throat, and Mycroft allowed himself a small, pleased smile in answer.

That smile undid something in Sherlock. He wasn't exactly sure as to what, but something in the atmosphere had shifted, and he found it impossible to withdraw his hand. Transfixed, he stared up at his brother, his eyes no more willing to leave Mycroft than his hand. His mouth opened of its own accord, even though he had no idea what he was going to say –

'Of all the abysmally stupid ideas you've ever had, this must be the worst,' Mycroft drawled calmly before Sherlock had a chance to get a single word out. Leisurely, he brushed off Sherlock's hand. 'Though it's hardly of the imaginative variety.'

Sherlock sucked in a breath. 'But you can't know what I was going to say…' he protested weakly. He felt constricted and oddly disoriented, unable to come up with any of the retorts which usually sat at attention on the tip of his tongue for whenever Mycroft said something annoying – which was practically always the case.

'Please,' Mycroft said contemptuously, 'I'm aware of everything that goes on in your mind, dear boy, long before you become aware of it.'

Sherlock resented Mycroft for saying that, all the more so because it was probably true. Normally, knowing that Mycroft spoke the truth had never stopped Sherlock from opposing him with passion, but in this instance he found that Mycroft had robbed him of every chance at a reply. There was simply nothing left for him to say. Before he'd even asked, he'd been rejected.

If he hadn't been directly involved, he'd have found it _interesting_. As it were, _nauseating_ proved to be an infinitely more apt description.

He looked up to find Mycroft watching him with supreme composure, not even a single auburn eyelash reacting to Sherlock's distress. The dark red cravat gleamed against his throat, a perfect, twisted challenge not just to the prime minister, but to Sherlock too. A challenge Sherlock had set himself without realising it. And Mycroft had let him fall into the trap, mercilessly, just like he'd trapped all of his other adversaries.

Mycroft shook his head. 'You always were a muddler, Sherlock,' he said coolly. 'One of your less becoming traits.'

And thus Mycroft went away to battle with the prime minister and Sherlock muddled on in silence.

~S~

The Turkish ambassador appeared in no hurry to leave, never mind his defeat. Trying to save face at least, Sherlock surmised, keeping his eyes trained on the drawing room with an increasingly impatient thrill. It surprised him that he wasn't feeling bored. Sitting in a tree in Mycroft's back garden, watching Mycroft seal a complicated political deal in his sedate drawing room by enfolding his guest in a ruse of suave manners that gradually wrapped themselves around his throat like a vice, twisting, turning, squeezing, constricting, until he was powerless not to acquiesce, was hardly the most exciting show on TV; at least for everybody who didn't happen to be an avid Machiavelli scholar. But Sherlock was riveted.

There was something about watching Mycroft. Practically Sherlock's whole life had been spent watching Mycroft and somehow he still hadn't come closer to grasping him, all of him. There was no capturing Mycroft in a concise chemical formula, and just when you supposed that you'd understood him, once and for all, he evaded you like a wisp of smoke. Only to turn up again in a dark, shady corner where you'd least expect it.

After years of feigned ignorance, distrust and deceit, the words _Come to mine tonight _had tumbled out of Mycroft's mouth with an ease as if they'd always been there, ready to be uttered. Casting aside all his accustomed obstinacy, Sherlock had obeyed – here he was, waiting only for the ambassador to leave, with bated breath and a pounding heart. Physiological signs of excitement, of anticipation, of… _nervousness_. For Sherlock could scarcely believe that what he'd wished for all these years, first innocently, later resentfully, was finally within his reach.

He'd never allowed himself to indulge in rampant fantasies, for which an abundance of hope and total abandon seemed the prerequisite, and he was lacking in both. Perhaps that now took its toll. As it were, the only image that had ever pervaded Sherlock's head, like a scene from an early black-and-white silent movie, sizzling faintly, was of Mycroft pressing a soft kiss to his lips and laying his hand over Sherlock's heart, at the place presently adorned by the flimsy white hawthorn blossoms. Then Sherlock's thoughts had invariably stuttered… and rewound. Now he tried to imagine running his hands over the crown of Mycroft's head that his eyes were currently rooted on – and then having them trail further down, to places still concealed from Sherlock's gaze. He found that he couldn't quite do it.

It would have been so much easier if this had happened years ago. Or simply, softly, just in passing, just like that, no fixed time, no fixed place.

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathed in the cloyingly sweet aroma of the hawthorn and slid a leather-gloved hand over the coarse, gnarled surface of the branch he was sitting on. The sensation steadied him.

This was real. And it was happening.

There was no need to lose his nerve now. He'd brace himself and stand up to the test of reality. And for once in his dealings with Mycroft, he'd come up to scratch.

~S~

'Jane,' the thirty-something human rights advocate introduced herself.

Recently divorced (if Sherlock ventured an educated guess, he'd say that her previous husband was an under-secretary of state), well-read, well-dressed, well-connected, a woman of the world. There was nothing particularly pretty about her, but she had striking, intelligent features and keen, sharp eyes that could almost rival the x-ray stare Mycroft had perfected over the recent years. While Sherlock had never given the matter much thought, he now realised that deep down he'd always known that this was just the type of woman Mycroft would choose to marry one day. How could he not? Mycroft would never content himself with someone who was boring, stupid and easy. He was Mummy's and Daddy's son after all. And tediously conservative on top of it.

Sherlock's eyes dropped to her left hand, which sported a thin, sophisticated silver diamond ring. It looked like it had been worn since –

'June,' Sherlock said. He turned to Mycroft. 'You've been engaged since June.'

'That's correct,' Mycroft assented crisply.

Somehow Sherlock desperately wished Mycroft had lied. He stared at Jane's ring again, beseeching it to defy his deductions and Mycroft's assertions. But it didn't. It was a clue, untampered with. Unlike all the signs announcing Mycroft's three casual flings, the women that didn't matter, it didn't lie.

'You've neglected to mention our engagement to the brother you've shared housing with for the last seven months?' Jane asked even more crisply, and now didn't that show just how perfectly she complemented him?

Afterwards, Sherlock wasn't quite sure how he'd made it out of the drawing room. He only knew he needed to get out – at once. He vaguely recalled Jane saying, 'You surprise me, Mycroft,' and Mycroft's hand on his shoulder, burning him, scorching him, trying to hold him back. He couldn't remember shrugging Mycroft off, but he must have, for suddenly he was free and running down the stairs, and a worried 'At least take an umbrella,' rang after him, muffled by a door falling shut, and then there was finally fresh air and blessed, blessed solitude. And Sherlock ran and ran until his legs gave out and, doubling over, he found that he could breathe again.

When he returned to the apartment two hours later, soaked through and shivering, Mycroft informed him that he and Jane had broken off their engagement. Sherlock needed a moment to let the incomprehensible words sink in. Then he understood what this was – an admission. Mycroft was walking away from Jane and all potential women like her for once and for all. He was taking leave of any pretence that what he wanted most was something he could have – because he was too much of a coward to acknowledge that, if only he'd cared to, he could indeed have had it. And so he was walking out on all of it, all but work and isolation.

'I want to move out,' Sherlock said as levelly as he could.

Mycroft nodded, grave but unsurprised. 'There's a charming flat being rented out on Seymour Place,' he said conversationally. 'If you want to, I can get in touch with the landlord.'

Sherlock hated Mycroft for having once again correctly anticipated his every move. Damn Mycroft's omniscience! How could Sherlock ever have expected anything other than misery from their relations when he didn't possess the power to surprise Mycroft, not even once. 'Thank you. But I already spotted a suitable flat on Montague Street.'

'There's no reason why you should live in a dirty old hovel, little brother.'

'There's also no reason why I should live in grand style, trying to make up with tasteful furniture and excellent views for what I lack in personality. In vain, I might add.'

For once Sherlock had the last word. It was pretty hollow, as far as victories went, but it was better than nothing.

~S~

Finally, the Turkish ambassador rose from his seat. Mycroft ushered him out of the room. In his thoughts Sherlock followed them to the other side of the house, imagined his brother taking leave with a couple of bland words, standing in the doorway until his visitor had reached his car, then raising his hand as a final farewell, going back inside and locking the front door. Sherlock estimated that all of these actions would take approximately five minutes in total, and indeed soon enough Mycroft returned alone to the drawing room, briefly rearranged the chairs and cushions, and then exited again, switching off the light and closing the door behind him.

Facing the ghostlike back of the house, Sherlock mentally skipped after his brother, maybe first to the study for a quick glance at his schedule for the next day, then undoubtedly to the bathroom. After what felt like ample of time for Mycroft to perform even the most extravagant beauty rituals, the light came on in the room one floor above – Mycroft's bedroom. Sherlock could make out a dark shape moving around the room, then settling – on the bed, no doubt.

Sherlock's heart sped up. He decided he would wait a little while longer, to ensure that the street outside was well and truly devoid of all possible spectators, and then he would slip into the house and join Mycroft up there. The very thought was making him light-headed. He would have liked to feel the cool, reassuring weight of a key in his pocket, pressing against his hip. He made do with fingering the white blossoms attached to his coat instead. They were beginning to droop.

Would Mycroft already have changed into his pyjamas, Sherlock wondered, or was he waiting for Sherlock in his suit and dressing gown before he started undressing? Considering the circumstances they currently found themselves in, there was also the possibility that Mycroft had simply undressed, period. But that thought refused to come to Sherlock as naturally as it ought to have. He was still only beginning to grasp that underneath the sleek countenance and crisp shirts Mycroft might well be the bolder one of the two, brazenly embracing what Sherlock's thoughts instinctively shied away from, if the kiss that had preceded the fateful _Come to mine tonight _was anything to go by.

If Mycroft was acting within the well-established patterns of behaviour Sherlock felt more comfortable placing him in, though, Sherlock reckoned there was a sixty per cent chance that Mycroft would already have donned the pyjamas, sixty-five if he was feeling particularly sentimental. And the situation rather seemed to demand sentimentality. For the first time in twelve years, Mycroft wasn't going to spend the night all alone in one of those big, empty houses of his. A certain display of cosy, welcoming homeliness was therefore not unlikely.

Once more Sherlock idly mulled over the question of why Mycroft moved houses so often. He'd never fully understood why Mycroft bothered to do so at all, if that only meant moving into a clone of the previous one. Especially considering the sedentary life his brother led in general. Not even to mention the ridicule it accidentally exposed him to. Even to this day Mycroft was blushing with shame – figuratively speaking, of course – that a very famous pop singer had purchased one of his former homes. Some things were even beyond Mycroft's control, apparently.

The regular moves could be ascribed to security reasons, of course. After all, Mycroft probably wasn't the only dangerous man in London who cherished these quiet, exclusive areas outside of the everyday hubbub of tourists and businessmen in the city centre, so finding himself next-door neighbour to a son of Osama Bin Laden hardly seemed out of the question. But Mycroft was the last person Sherlock would have called paranoid, at least where his own safety was concerned – the way he was monitoring Sherlock's every move was another matter entirely: obsessive-compulsive didn't even begin to describe it – and yet in the past twelve years he'd changed his address more often than Sherlock.

Mycroft possessed the gift of filling even the purchase of a predictably boring townhouse with the hint of a double or triple bluff, so it could very well be every reason Sherlock had ever contemplated, or none at all, and yet Sherlock suspected – hoped? dreaded? – that loneliness figured strongly in the equation.

Not even the Sonnets and Disraeli could be entertaining companions forever. Especially not when they'd have to compete against weariness and cynicism. As well as all the guilt, of course.

~S~

'I owe you a fall, Sherlock.'

Jim Moriarty sat in his living room and talked about fairy tales. It took Sherlock two days, four hours, three minutes and fifty-two seconds to make the connection.

'He played you, didn't he? Admit it, brother mine,' Sherlock sneered as soon as he'd closed the door to Mycroft's private backroom at the Diogenes Club. 'You never stood a chance.'

Mycroft carefully placed his half-filled tumbler of Scotch back on the tea table. 'Not quite.' His expression was smooth, unreadable. If it hadn't been for the faint trace of reluctance in his voice, they might as well have been discussing the weather forecast for the weekend. 'I allowed him to play me.'

Sherlock clicked his tongue. Stupid, he'd been stupid. No, worse than that, naïve. Of course Mycroft wouldn't have been fooled so easily. And wasn't it almost quaint how he was more concerned with proving his intellectual superiority than concealing his betrayal? Mycroft always had such a firm set of priorities. 'Did he offer you a good prize at least?' Sherlock scoffed. 'Sovereignty over the world or merely a good blowjob?'

'Something like that. No need to be crude, Sherlock.'

'Well, I'm glad it was worth it,' Sherlock said, fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

'No smoking indoors,' Mycroft reminded him sternly.

'I think I'll be forgiven this one small lapse in conduct in the light of your far graver … _blunders _in that department,' Sherlock said. He took a first draught from his cigarette and then slowly exhaled a steady stream of smoke right into his brother's face. 'Besides, what are you going to do? Make a racket? Here?'

His features twisting in disgust, Mycroft took a step backwards. But he said nothing.

Sherlock smirked against the end of his cigarette. He was beginning to enjoy this.

'You see, you played too risky a game, brother dear. You gave Jim Moriarty more of an incentive than he had any reason to hope for, enough not just to injure, but to destroy me; anything to conceal that you were _emotionally compromised_. But here's your mistake: He was banking on that. You may think that only the two people currently standing in this room are privy to the dirty little secret you harbour in your chest, but, guess what, he knew too.'

Sherlock took another step forward, puffing smoke at Mycroft's face. This time, Mycroft flinched, but made no move to escape. 'He's not the only one,' Sherlock murmured in low, dangerous tones. 'Anyone who cares to look can see what a coward you are.'

Mycroft looked devastated. 'What do you want me to say, Sherlock?'

Suddenly, Sherlock realised that Jim Moriarty wasn't the only person who could play Mycroft Holmes. Maybe he ought to thank Jim for the excellent lesson. For the first time in his life, Sherlock had his brother exactly where he wanted him. Now he could do with him whatever he pleased, juggle him through the air and squeeze him out like a lemon; oh yes, claw off his skin and squeeze him out to the very last drop, then throw him away and tread on him in passing. It was a bewitching, glaringly satisfying realisation.

'Or maybe,' he whispered, narrowing his eyes for better effect, 'there was no mistake and you were indeed the top player of that match.'

'Sherlock,' Mycroft implored, laying a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, a frazzled, wasted gesture.

'Spare me the dramatics, Mycroft,' Sherlock shook him off. 'You made a good solid business deal, don't whine about it now. You received potentially valuable information and got rid of an inconvenience along the way. Admirably neat.'

'Sherlock,' Mycroft began again, his face white and drained. 'You have to listen, please. I regret our differences, I regret the difficulties I have now placed you in out of political acumen, but I never intended for this… Ignoring how difficult you make it to love you, Sherlock, I choose to live with this inconvenience. So please don't say… I have never, _never_ wanted anyone but you.'

For a moment all Sherlock could do was stare at him, honestly taken aback. After over nine years of tiptoeing around the unspoken fact that poisoned their lives, he'd managed to force a confession out of Mycroft. He knew how much it must have cost his brother to admit this much, and yet it had been almost easy. Too easy maybe. Once upon a time, he might have felt dazed, and reverent even. Now all he experienced, as he blinked several times in quick succession, was the intoxicating surge of absolute power and triumph. And the kind of bitterness that came with _Too late… too bloody late._

His lip curled disdainfully. 'Well, that was touching,' he said in his silkiest tone and took another draught from his cigarette.

Mycroft gasped, a ragged, dry sound, and as Sherlock glanced at him, the hurt he'd inflicted stared back at him and Mycroft was doing nothing to disguise it. Coolly Sherlock averted his gaze. Standing by one of the windows, he finished his cigarette in silence broken only by Mycroft's harsh breathing. Once he was done, he tossed the stub onto the burnished parquet flooring, ground it out with his heel and turned to leave.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft said behind him, his voice sounding broken. 'You can't just leave. We have to make plans, we have to take precautions. You have to be careful.'

Sherlock turned around and laughed in his brother's face.

'This is no longer a game,' Mycroft insisted more calmly, his mask almost back in place. It filled Sherlock with the itch to scrape it off just one more time, to show he could. 'This isn't about you and me, don't you get it? If you're not…. If you don't… You'll die.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'And whose fault will that be?'

Mycroft slapped him, hard. An unprecedented event. But then, Mycroft losing his composure for the second time in the span of five minutes was also a first. 'For once in your life be reasonable!' he exclaimed.

Sherlock rubbed a finger across his burning cheek and chuckled mirthlessly. 'Twice,' he said, enunciating each consonant with contemptuous care, and walked out of the room and away from all of Mycroft's offers to help.

~S~

Seated up here in the tree beneath Mycroft's bedroom window, thinking of Mycroft petering out in his vast expansion of expensively furnished rooms like a brook run dry, utterly at the mercy of his own relentless mind, Sherlock was glad and grateful that he didn't have to live alone. Back when he'd informed Mycroft that he would move out, he'd had no idea that he wasn't simply walking away, but actually moving towards something new and infinitely more fulfilling – happiness, friends, a home, a whole life. He'd never have dared to hope for so much. Most of all, he'd never have dared to hope for someone like John.

Things were better with John around, had been so right from the start. John was … _kind_. The first person who didn't treat Sherlock like a bomb that could go off any moment. He laughed at Sherlock, scolded him, liked him and appeared to find nothing unusual in that. He didn't judge Sherlock's fraught relationship with his brother, treating their feud with the same amusement as some of the more bizarre TV shows he liked to watch. Mostly, he grinned at Sherlock's childish suggestions of getting a dog and naming it Gladstone just to spite Mycroft, habitually took Sherlock's side in the argument that was bound to ensue when Mycroft dropped by for a visit, and flat-out refused to be dazzled or dismayed by the claustrophobic, almost mythical complexity of it all. _You lived with Mycroft for seven months after dropping out of university? No wonder you hate the man now. Harry and I tried flat-sharing in my first term at Bart's and it was a nightmare. _

Sherlock chuckled to himself as he tried to imagine what John would have said if he knew where Sherlock was tonight. He rather suspected that spilt tea would have featured somewhere along the line, but apart from that Sherlock couldn't make any predictions with a clear conscience. Possibly, that was one of the best things about John: He proved to be a mixture of reliable and unpredictable that never stopped intriguing Sherlock in a way completely different from Mycroft's constant enigma – and definitely nowhere near as threatening.

Just take tonight – John was out on a date. The third one with his latest girlfriend – Mia, Mandy, Madison? Something like that. On average, John's relationships lasted 5.27 dates, which meant that there would be two more dinner and cinema dates with Mia, Mandy, Madison… before she inevitably decided that John wasn't quite the sort of partner she was looking for. After which John would promptly go looking for a new 5-date-mate. So far, utterly boring and predictable. But here was the surprise: While John ran through one girlfriend after the other, he never grew bored of Sherlock. He never thought of moving out, of having a life of his own. He always placed Sherlock and their mutual work first. And while he clearly enjoyed flirting with pretty women and probably liked having sex with them even better, in his quiet, unobtrusive way he unambiguously stated that this wasn't his number one goal in life, that what he was looking for above all were the things he got from Sherlock: crime, adventure and friendship.

Thank God for that, Sherlock thought, stroking the branch he was sitting on almost tenderly. He'd been immensely relieved to discover on his return to London after destroying every single thread of Moriarty's intricate web of crime that John had not moved on for good and was ready to resume their previous living arrangements.

Mycroft had not moved on either, not in spirit, though he must have purchased the house whose shadowy backside Sherlock was currently facing shortly after Sherlock's fake suicide. As the cool night air fanned his face Sherlock presumed he'd also been relieved at that discovery, even if he'd basically expected it. Possibly, Sherlock mused, it was this contrast between them – Sherlock's craving for people, _friends_, to populate the crazy little orbit of his life, and Mycroft's inability to move on from his solitary, single-minded focus on the one person he fancied almost his equal – which after much ado had led them here, Sherlock up into this tree and Mycroft into the bedroom awaiting him, at the point of no return. Destiny moved in mysterious ways.

~S~

'Think,' Sherlock muttered to himself and once more cursed the fact that he had no one to talk to, not even a skull. Though of course he already knew that he'd figured out everything there was. The real problem was a lack of resources, not of thought. Moriarty's network was too big and too complex for one person to take down.

The only sensible thing would have been to involve Mycroft, who'd easily have provided Sherlock with everything he needed to complete his mission. But Sherlock was loath to crawl back to his big brother and ask for his help, validating his condescending opinion that Sherlock simply wasn't good enough and couldn't be trusted on his own. True, Sherlock had done more than Mycroft had ever believed him capable of, he'd survived; but now he was out of his depth and he didn't want to admit it to the one person who treated him as though that were his habitual state of being. Besides, there was the ugly fact Sherlock couldn't just overlook that Mycroft had betrayed him and dropped him into this mess in the first place; and they hadn't really parted on the best of terms.

Formerly, in the not too distant past, Sherlock would probably have chosen to die rather than to ask for help, simply as a matter of principle. But since then he'd met John, whose fond twinkling eyes whenever he looked at Sherlock unequivocally said, _You've done good, Sherlock. And you can do better still, _and it rather appeared as though Sherlock's principles had silently rearranged themselves in return.

After debating with himself for a couple of days, he finally made up his mind to resort to Anthea instead. Mycroft's PA was almost as smug and superior as her boss, but she'd always treated Sherlock with an indulgent sort of indifference, never batting an eyelid at the stroppy tantrums he couldn't help but throw from time to time when the very idea of Mycroft became insufferable. On one odd occasion he'd felt the curious need to explain himself to her, maybe because the absence of all reaction disquieted him. 'It's all Mycroft's fault,' he told her. 'Sure, Sherlock,' she replied and graced him with that pitying, little smile of hers which invariably struck him as far too knowing. That she was still in Mycroft's employ despite having obviously pieced together some of his most intimate secrets proved she could be trusted absolutely.

Thus he texted her. No name, no greeting, nothing. Just a plea for information on S. Moran's account movements in South America.

_What do I tell him? _she texted back after five minutes, because, yes, that woman was smart.

_Nothing. _he answered and smirked in satisfaction.

He already knew that Anthea wouldn't breathe a word to anybody, Mycroft included, and once she'd reviewed all her options, she'd know it too. She was loyal to her boss to a fault – and that fault included lying to him if it served his best interests. She would be clever enough to realise that if Sherlock didn't want Mycroft to know of his survival, she mustn't inform him of it either, if she didn't want Sherlock to stop contacting her. And as he would only have reached out to her because he desperately needed help, it was likely that he would die for real this time. So she would keep quiet.

Twenty minutes later, he received a link to all the information he required.

Despite Anthea's occasional help, always quick, always competent, and his own undeniable mental prowess, Sherlock nearly got killed six months into his mission, a nice comeuppance for not tending better to the cuts and scratches he'd picked up along the way. _My dear boy,_ a contemptuous drawl filled his aching head, _you always had the unfortunate habit of overestimating yourself_ _and see what comes of it?_ Chained up in a dark, dirty basement, Sherlock let his delirious thoughts dwell on the home and the people he'd left behind for the first time since he'd jumped off that rooftop. He was unprepared for the onslaught of longing, grief and regret that flooded his feverish mind, spilling over and over. There was a frantic tumble of words, looks and gestures, accompanied by a wild yearning to add some that hadn't been there and to take others back that had been, though he couldn't have named which.

Six months. That thought kept returning with the quiet perseverance Sherlock had come to associate with John. Six months everyone in London apart from Molly and lately Anthea too had believed him dead. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft… none of them would know if he died here, alone and miserable. Something was wrong with that, somehow. It wasn't until the infection abated and his head had cleared a little that he understood why. They would always think of him as he'd been when he stepped off that roof, a hapless man unable to cope with the strains of reality. And they would continue to blame themselves. A waste of sentiment. A waste of time.

Much as he longed to end it all for good, he recognised that he couldn't risk contacting John or Mrs Hudson or Lestrade; for all he knew, Moriarty's snipers were still watching them. Mycroft, on the other hand. There'd never been any good reason to keep him in the dark apart from bone deep resentment. The imminent threat of death now put in perspective the grudge that Sherlock had always held against Mycroft for being older, for being taller, for being smarter, the grudge that had only intensified with each and every further denial or betrayal on his brother's part: How meaningless was an existence driven by disappointment, bitterness, hurt pride and a broken heart. How _muddled_. And, ultimately, mundane.

As soon as he managed to catch his breath after escaping from the dank hole where he'd been held captive, he sent off a postcard to Whitehall. His wrist was sprained, possibly even broken, who knew, so he didn't attempt to write anything. Not that it mattered. The front of the card featured a simple bouquet of hawthorn blossoms. Mycroft would understand anyway.

Four weeks later, feeling even longer to Sherlock to the point that he was certain the post must have lost his insignificant little card, Sherlock received a new text from Anthea: _Thank you._

A second later it was followed by: _If he knew, he'd add his thanks._

And because Anthea was clearly overwhelmed by feeling, the usually so crisp woman added a third message to the mix: _This is the second time I've seen him cry and the first time I didn't mind. I'm proud of you._

_No need to get sentimental, _he texted back.

_I wouldn't dream of it, _she answered, but Sherlock felt certain that she was lying and if he was honest, so was he. For what should he have called the almost giddy relief that spread through his veins at the thought that something which had been broken far more severely than his wrist had finally been mended, if not pure and deep sentiment?

~S~

How much time had passed Sherlock couldn't have said, but he was still seated up in the knotted old oak tree when Mycroft turned off the light; a sign that Sherlock couldn't read.

Sherlock's breath quickened. Tonight should have been the end of all enigma, but clearly it wasn't.

Mycroft simply couldn't do without mystery. And neither could Sherlock, he realised a beat later. He did not only solve mysteries, he created them too, and wasn't that ironic. After all, tonight's biggest conundrum was this: Why was he still sitting in this tree?

Sherlock had never been as good at examining his own heart as everyone else's. It took him a couple of minutes to work out that the anticipation which had filled him earlier, making him want to burst into exuberant song and laughter, had seamlessly transformed into another emotion which was deceptively similar and yet something different altogether: anxiety.

No longer was it the thrill of a promising case which unfurled in the pit of his stomach, but the weird, tense giddiness he'd last felt when he was standing on Bart's rooftop, when he'd calculated that there was a 75% chance he'd survive the fall coupled with the 100% certainty he'd have to give up his life. Stop, no, that wasn't true. The last time he'd felt like this had been much more recent.

He remembered dragging a half flu-ridden John on a chase over rooftops two months ago – Sherlock had nimbly jumped from one roof to the next, but after effortlessly negotiating a particularly wide gap, a sick sense of foreboding had twisted his stomach, forcing him to pivot and face John, who was still standing back on the other ledge. At that moment, he'd known with deadly certainty that John wouldn't make the jump. Sherlock couldn't recall ever feeling so scared and not even when they'd called off the chase and driven back to 221B in a cab had he been able to stop shaking.

Breathing harshly, Sherlock now stared at the lightless bedroom window. So, he concluded carefully, he was afraid and possibly not only or even not at all for himself. There was a high probability he was afraid for Mycroft's sake. The very notion of being scared for the most dangerous, most powerful man Sherlock had ever met seemed utterly and completely ludicrous; why then had it taken hold of him?

On the face of it, Mycroft had been the one to initiate all of this, their intimacy, the promise of more, Sherlock's visit; but with Mycroft, the undisputed champion of the double entendre and the triple bluff, not even the most candid pass had to be entirely straightforward on closer inspection. His initiative might well have been due to Sherlock's asking. _Asking._ All his life he'd been asking, relentlessly: _Why does that tree smell like a yucky old herring? _and _Can I sleep in your bed tonight?_ and _Why did Mummy and Daddy lie to me about the Easter Bunny? _and _Can I dissect your goldfish? _and _When is Mummy coming home? _and _Why are we too old to bathe together? _Mycroft had borne with it, patiently answering, patiently giving in to all of Sherlock's demands, humouring him even in his most bizarre flights of fancy.

Mycroft had only ever denied him one single thing, and that with great cruelty and rigour. Perhaps, though, that had above all been Mycroft denying himself. Were seven months of grieving for Sherlock and a lifetime of bitterness and regret wasted between them really enough to topple all of Mycroft's painstakingly built and maintained defences, Sherlock wondered. He rather suspected that Mycroft himself didn't know what would follow in their wake.

If Mycroft had actually given him a key, it would have made all the difference. But Mycroft simply had to be difficult, had to toy with Sherlock like he did with the rest of the world, the ultimate goal always power and control; such was the nature of things. The same could be said for Sherlock. He had his own history of being difficult. Difficult in a much more encompassing sense than the phrase _difficult to love_, though that too might have its justification. In that respect, Sherlock still was just as neat, proper and conservative as the rest of his family. There never would be any place for easy, not in their worn, muddled lives.

But at least for once in his life that left him with a choice – not to play.

And just like that, Sherlock knew he wouldn't take this leap.

Calm, almost content even, Sherlock climbed down the tree. Back on the ground, he rubbed his hands against each other, once, twice, as though there was dirt or dust sticking to them, while all he felt was the smooth glide of his leather gloves over each other. Accidentally, one of his hands brushed over the tender white petals on his chest, sending a lush, almost putrid waft of hawthorn intermingled with the musky aroma of goatskin leather up his nostrils. He closed his eyes and sighed. It smelled like home; or rather like a hazy, nostalgic version of home, before John and Baker Street had shown him the true meaning of the concept. Opening his eyes again, his gaze fell on the small hawthorn tree. He huffed in a breath, affectionate, amused. A blank postcard and a recently planted tree, that would be all there was to tell, Sherlock thought, and wouldn't Mummy be proud. Then he snuck up one last glance at Mycroft's bedroom window.

~S~

'Sherlock, when you were gone,' Mycroft began out of the blue, 'there were some things I… regretted.'

'I hope selling me out was among them,' Sherlock sniffed drily as he picked up one of the folders stacked on Mycroft's desk and rifled through the files it contained. Not that he was interested in the contents in the slightest, but riling his older brother up had become one of his favourite pastimes at age four, and thirty odd years later he'd still not lost the taste for it.

With an elegant flick of his wrist, Mycroft plucked the folder out of his hand and placed it back on his desk, shaking his head as he did so. 'Of course, don't be stupid.'

'But not at the forefront of your mind.'

'True. There was mostly the regret that I'd never done _this_,' Mycroft said, framed Sherlock's face with his hands and kissed him.

In a way, Sherlock had been expecting something like this ever since Mycroft had personally come to collect him from the airport seven months ago, when he'd given Sherlock's arm a light squeeze and then left his hand where it was all the way to the car. Yet it still came as a shock.

For when Mycroft kissed him, it was nothing like what Sherlock would have imagined. He would have expected Mycroft to be careful with him, and also maybe just a bit dry, because that's what Mycroft's whole personality was, wasn't it? However, the way Mycroft was grasping and clawing at him definitely wasn't reminiscent of the caution with which one would treat a fragile object. Mycroft's hands, Mycroft's torso, Mycroft's arms, Mycroft's mouth all billowed over Sherlock in an overwhelming tidal wave, tearing at him, cutting into him, suffocating him, swallowing him up. With insatiable, unbridled hunger Mycroft licked and bit his way into Sherlock's mouth and claimed him.

_Kissing_, Irene Adler had told him somewhere far, far away on a hot, humid night. It had been a short, surreal conversation, beginning with the complaint _Your brother hates me,_ and ending with the generous parting advice _He likes kissing._

Needless to say, she'd been right.

Sherlock's senses needed a couple of seconds to process the wild assault of touch and taste and feeling before he could find it in himself to respond. It took him another four seconds, these spent with enthusiastic participation in the proceedings, to realise the full scope of the unprecedented event.

Mycroft was kissing him. After yearning for this as long as Sherlock could remember, Mycroft was finally kissing him.

And judging by the way Mycroft's hands and mouth were wandering steadily downwards, passionate kissing clearly wasn't all Mycroft had in mind just now. After all these years of waiting, of pining, of denying and of resenting, matters were resolved astonishingly quick and easy. Especially quick.

Sherlock broke away, panting for breath. His chest heaving, he moved back an inch or two and reached for his scarf. A tremor ran through his hands as he became aware that Mycroft had stilled entirely and betrayed no hurry to remove any of the infuriatingly many layers of bespoke clothing he was wearing himself. His mouth half-open, wanton like a raw, red crime scene, his shirt and suit crinkled, looking positively debauched, he was watching Sherlock.

Feeling ridiculously self-conscious, Sherlock took off his scarf and began to fold it meticulously, but with an impatient click of his tongue Mycroft tore it out of his hands and tossed it carelessly behind him, giving Sherlock a look as though _he_ were being rather more dry than expected.

Blushing at his own clumsy embarrassment, Sherlock then proceeded to flick open the buttons of his shirt. His fingers were shaking under the dark, searing absoluteness of Mycroft's gaze, as though the smooth, translucent whiteness of Sherlock's skin which they were revealing inch by inch were a book of revelations that had been written for his perusal alone.

Before Sherlock managed to unbutton all of his shirt, there was a sudden knock on the office door, causing both of them to freeze in mid-action.

'Sir,' Anthea's perfectly neutral voice could be heard from the outside. 'The prime minister will be here to see you in ten minutes.'

Sherlock stared at the door, stared at his brother, stared, his heart sinking. Mycroft slowly trailed a hand over Sherlock's half-bare chest, the feather-light softness of his touch a far cry from his previous passion. Then he sighed and dropped his hand. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock,' he murmured. He sounded and looked sincere. And oh so tired. He brushed his hands over his suit and shirt, the motion somewhat feckless and resigned. The result wasn't exactly the pristine propriety expected of a public servant, but no doubt good enough to fool the oblivious prime minister that Mycroft had done no worse than tear at his hair while brooding over the latest bulletin on Britain's Middle-East policy.

Sherlock shook his head. 'It's fine.' He began re-buttoning his shirt. Mycroft's eyes followed his hands, slowly travelling up to Sherlock's face, lighting up as they connected with Sherlock's.

'Come to mine tonight,' Mycroft said in a low, but intense tone, 'I'm having a private dinner with the Turkish ambassador, but he should leave at about ten.'

Sherlock nodded solemnly.

'Good,' Mycroft said and permitted himself that small, pleased smile Sherlock hadn't seen on his face for over twelve years, a touchingly private, touchingly simple affair. The desire to kiss that smile right off his brother's lips surged up in Sherlock, tingling in his veins and under his skin, but he didn't quite know how to go about it. Fortunately, Mycroft for once used his seven surplus years to an advantage and, guessing Sherlock's secret wishes, took matters into his own hands.

'Sherlock, listen,' he began again after what could only be described as a stageworthy farewell kiss; and Sherlock listened, since the kiss had melted any remaining waywardness, leaving him powerless not to obey. 'Before you leave, there's something else I want you to know. When I said you were a muddler… it was unjust. No one in this family has ever been a greater muddler than myself.'

'Why are you telling me this?' Sherlock asked, feeling distinctly unsettled. 'You think I'll mess up again, don't you?'

Mycroft inclined his head, a leisurely, ironic gesture. 'Please, dear boy, why do you always have to jump to the absurdest conclusions? Can't I simply say something for once without arousing suspicion?'

Sherlock felt his eyebrows rise despite himself, trained from a lifetime of suffering under Mycroft's crafty ambiguities. 'You never _simply_ say something, Mycroft. It's psychologically impossible for you. You are trying to make me feel good. A rare occurrence, I might add. It's only reasonable to wonder why.'

'And my regrets for all the times I've made you feel bad do not count as an answer?'

Sherlock smiled. 'No, not at all. – But it's of no consequence. I won't disappoint you this time.'

'You've never disappointed me, Sherlock. More often than not, you've had the element of surprise on your side, which is more than can be said for anyone else I've ever had the dubious pleasure of meeting.'

Sherlock thought of every confrontation he'd ever had with his brother and couldn't come up with a single instance where Mycroft hadn't anticipated his every move. Unless of course Mycroft had been bluffing. Now there was a thought! He ran a faintly trembling hand over Mycroft's cheek, half tender, half experimental, and altogether awed by the fact that he could.

'Soon, love,' Mycroft soothed him, closing his hand over Sherlock's, as though there'd been any impatience in the caress.

Again, Sherlock's eyebrows rose of their own accord. '_Love_?'

'Do you mind?'

'I find it oddly … _disquieting_.'

Mycroft smiled, superior – always superior! – and… _fond_. 'I imagine you would.'

Sherlock pressed a quick kiss to the spot where his fingers had rested a moment earlier and made his way to the door.

'Tonight, Sherlock,' Mycroft repeated behind him, his words rich and dark with promise.

~S~

When Sherlock rounded the corner of Baker Street, he saw to his astonishment that the lights were on in the living room of 221B. Obviously, John's date hadn't gone as planned and Mandy or Madison or whoever she was had ditched him before his time. And for some unfathomable reason John had decided to wait up for Sherlock.

Frowning to himself, Sherlock crossed the street and approached their mutual home.

However, the surprises of the night were not yet over. As he reached the front door of 221B, the high, sharp ping of his smartphone pierced through the nocturnal silence of the street. He fished his phone out from his pocket and discovered, maybe not quite so surprisingly on second thought, that Mycroft had texted him. For a moment, Sherlock stared at the display, hesitating to open the message. There was significance to this, he understood that quite clearly, since Mycroft usually preferred to call; but exactly wherein it lay he found impossible to determine. He threw a questioning glance over his shoulder at the security camera which he knew to be on the roof of the building to the right. Of course it told him nothing. Just one more faint shadow hovering in the night. Sherlock sighed and averted his eyes back to the screen of his phone.

He couldn't quite explain to himself why the earlier anxiousness had suddenly returned and why his fingers trembled ever so slightly as he pressed _read_.

A single sentence appeared in front of his eyes, laden with a dozen complicated implications, all of which wrapped themselves around Sherlock's throat like a warm, plush scarf that sat just a little too tight.

_I do hope you didn't catch cold. M_

* * *

Thanks for reading. All concrit is welcome.


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